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Wol. That's news indeed !

CROM. Last, that the lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pulld me down : 0

Cromwell,
'The king has gone beyond me: all my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever.
No fun shall ever usher forth

my

honours,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell !
I'm a poor fall’n man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master.

Seek the king,
(That sun I pray may never fet) I've told him
What, and how true thou art; he will advance thee :
Some litile memory of me will ftir him,
(I know his noble nature) not to let
Thy hopeful service perilh too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.
-CROM. O

my

lord,
Must I then leave you ? Muft I needs forego
So good, fo noble, and fo true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
The king shall have my service; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

Woc. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries, but thou haft forc'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman

Let

Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell,
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard, say then I taught chee;
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And founded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in :
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin sell the angels; how can man then
(Tho' th' image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle Peace,
To filence envious tongues. Be juft, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'ft at, be thy Country's,
Thy God's, and Truth's; then if thou fall'ft, o Cromwell !
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king-
And pr’ythec lead me in
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heav'n, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell !
Had I but sery'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Crom. Good Sir, have patience,

Wol. So I have. Farewel
The hopes of court! my hopes in Heaven do dwell.

SHAKSPEARE.

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CHAP. XXI.

LEAR. Blow winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow! You cataracts, and hurricanes, spout Tilly

you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks !
You solph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Singe my white head. And thou all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity oʻth' world !
Crack Nature's mould, all germins spill at once
That make ungrateful man!

Rumble thy belly full, spit fire, spout rain !
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.
'I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure.--Here I fand your brave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man;
But yet I call you

servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high engender'd battles, 'gainst a head,
So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul..

Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulg'd crimes,
Unwhip'd of justice! Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjure, and thou simular of virtue,
That art incestuous ! catiff, shake to pieces,
That, under cover of convivial seeming,
Has practis'd on man's life-Close pent-up guilts,

Rive

Rive your concealing continents, and alk
Those dreadful fummoners grace ! -I am a man,
More finn'd against, than finning.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XXII.

MACBETH's SOLILOQUY.
Is this a dagger which I fee before me,
The handle tow'rd my hand ? come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to fight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.-
Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going ; ;
And such an instrument I was to use,
Mine eyes are made the fools o' th other fenses,
Or, else worth all the rest I see thee still;
And on the blade of th' dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. -There's no such thing.
It is the bloody business, which informs
Thus to mine eyes.-

-Now o'er one half the world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
'The curtain's sleep; now Witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings : and wither'd Murther,
(Alarm'd by his centinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch) thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing ftrides, tow'rds his design
Moves like a ghost, -Thou sure and firm-fet rth,

Hear

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Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The
very

ftones prate of my where-about
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whilft I threat, he lives-
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me,
Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell!

SHAKSPEARE:

CHAP. XXIII.

MACDUFF, MALCOLM, AND ROSSE.

MacD. SEE

EE who comes here!
MAL. My countryman : but yet I know him not.
Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.

MAL. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers !

Rosse. Sir, Amen.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did ?

Rosse, Alas! poor country!
Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot
Be call'd our mother, but our grave ; where nothing,
Bat who knows nothing, is once seen to smile ;
Where fighs and groans, and shrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow seems
A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell.
Is there scarce alk’d, for whom : and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps ;
Dying or e'er they ficken.

MACD. Oh, relation
Too nice, and yet too true!
MAL. What's the newest grief!

Rosse.

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